


... Growth

by raiyana



Series: A Question of... [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Growing up in Angband, Gwindor's escape, Half-Vampires, Thralls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23855302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Young Erestor was created for a fell purpose to suit his Master's needs... but something has gone awry.
Relationships: Gwindor & Erestor(child)
Series: A Question of... [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583737
Kudos: 14





	... Growth

“I can’t!” the boy cried, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth to join the red tears running down his small squalling face. “I won’t!”

His mother, standing in the shadows beside the Master’s throne – mother in the sense that she had laboured to let him into this world, though she had never offered him the comfort and shelter of the role – looked on with a snarl on her thin mouth, eyes dark with anger as she glared at her offspring.

Disappointment.

And yet she did not move to strike the boy, her wings rustling drily as they fell along her back.

“You _will_ do as you are told, _Úfáreo **[1]**_ ,” the Precious Master said, voice sweet as honey and dark as night.

The boy flinched, his dark eyes dripping crimson down his pale cheeks.

“The Master requires it, Ñúlelíro[2],” Thuringwethil hissed. Gliding towards the boy, she smiled, barely sparing a glance at the trembling elf maid beside him. “And you like the taste of her blood, don’t you?”

At first, Ñúlelíro did not reply, staring up at her with those tearful eyes.

“Are you not hungry, boy?” Thuringwethil crooned, long fingers closing around the slim shoulder. “Do you not wish to be full?”

Ñúlelíro nodded silently, still weeping as he stared at the cut one of the Master’s orcs had made in the girl’s arm. Thuringwethil sighed, pushing him a little closer.

“But… she’s a person,” he said, whispering the words into the quiet of the hall.

The slap that followed rang out far louder, as did the boy’s whimper as he crumbled beside the elf-maid.

“You will drink, little Hloirion[3],” the Precious Master ordered. “Make your Master proud.”

“If you do not, _I_ will drain her,” Thuringwethil hissed in the boy’s ear, dragging him back to his feet with a hard yank before shoving him at the girl again. “Now _feed_.” She smiled darkly. “Make her yours.”

The boy drank, briefly, hungrily, lips pressed tight to the girl’s wrist as his throat worked to swallow despite the tears that kept flowing down his face.

“It is well…” the elf-maid murmured, one hand raising to pat his dark hair gently; she had been the one who delivered his meals, teaching him her songs. “ _I forgive you, Rívornig **[4]**._”

Ñúlelíro pulled away, licking his lips as though she was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Perhaps he would not fail his purpose after all.

And then he seemed to recall where his nourishment had come from; not a slaughtered bird or animal, but the closest thing he had to a friend.

And the tears kept flowing as he stared at her, heard her scream when Thuringwhethil made good on her threat, tearing into her throat unmercifully, dark claws rending the dirty but kind face beneath her long fingers.

* * *

“The boy failed, my pet,” the Precious Master snarled from his throne. “Why?! Why can he not do as he was meant?!”

“Perhaps he is too young, Master,” Thuringwethil simpered. “His powers are not yet strong enough for conversion of the eruhíni.”

“Then you will _teach_ him,” he growled, sweeping past her reverent bow, the hem of his fur cloak brushing against her face.

* * *

Thuringwethil obeyed her Master, always.

But the boy could not learn to change his targets into more of the Grand Master’s deceptive blood-drinkers no matter how much he was punished.

The Plan had failed.

* * *

“May I see Atto?”

The question, asked many a time before, was usually met with indifferent permission.

But this time, as the boy scurried off in the company of his guard, Thuringwethil’s crimson gaze followed, darkness churning in her mind.

Perhaps there were still ways she had not tried.

* * *

“You must escape, Ataryo,” Rívorn hissed, glancing behind him as though fearing pursuit. “She means to kill you!”

There was only one ‘She’ in Rívorn’s life, and Gwindor’s blood ran cold at the thought of those gleaming fangs tearing into his flesh.

But his heart steeled in the next moment, one withered hand lifting to wipe away his son’s crimson tears.

“I shall not abandon you, my son,” he swore. “If I am to die here, that is my fate, but you must not ask me to leave the one goodness that yet remains to me.”

Rívorn closed his eyes, leaning into Gwindor’s touch for a moment, but his tears did not still.

“But you must, Atto,” he cried, “I don’t want to…”

“Hush now, Rívornig,” Gwindor soothed, drawing the boy – not yet grown taller than Gwindor’s chest – close, petting his black hair gently.

“They will make me do it,” Rívorn whispered, muffling the words against Gwindor’s ratty clothes. “I heard her – the Master thinks I can do what they wish if you are gone, but I can’t… Atto, please!” He choked on the words, and Gwindor wished he was strong enough to protect him from the anguish he could clearly read in Rívorn’s dark eyes.

“That will not happen, I promise,” Gwindor replied, “I will go to the forges and steal a sword – if I cannot… I will kill myself afore I let them stain your heart with my death.”

He had meant no oath more, bending to kiss Rívorn’s pale forehead.

“I love you, my son,” he murmured, “and all my blessings go with you.”

“You must go!” Rívorn cried, pushing him away at the sound of coming footsteps. “Now!”

Gwindor limped off, as quickly as he could, Rívorn’s feet beating down the hallway in the opposite direction, and felt his heart splinter and turn to stone.

_I am sorry, my boy. Be safe – and remember me._

* * *

“Here!” The girl chained to the anvil hissed, shoving the blade at him, small enough to hide, long enough to fight with, and Gwindor’s eyes glowed with fell purpose once more.

The stars… he would see the stars again.

* * *

Lying back upon the dead leaves, weak flesh refusing to go further; the smell of blood from his poorly bound stump filled the air around him, announcing his presence to any and all hunters.

Gwindor cared not.

The sun still hung high in the sky, though he could tell the stars would come for him soon.

But it was a gentle hand that found him first, belonging to a familiar face though it took him some time to seek out its owner in the depth of memory.

“…Beleg…?”

[1] Insufficient one

[2] Song of Sorcery (named as a reference to the way he was conceived)

[3] Venomous one (what he is meant to be; capable of turning his victims into vampires who can stand daylight like him, unlike those turned by Thuringwethil and her kin, who can only hunt in the dark/shadows)

[4] Little black crown (endearment)


End file.
